CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Kate
“I can’t believe this,” Richard says. “I get to watch a VIP game before I leave.” He’s leaving for the States in a few weeks. Or months. I don’t know. But he’s always been a basketball fan, and now a friend of Michael’s, so he’s really happy.
The VIP section is its own little bubble—cushioned chairs instead of hard plastic, cup holders that actually fit human-sized drinks, and a view so close I can see the sheen on the polished wood of the court.
The air smells like popcorn and nacho cheese, and every few seconds a wave of crowd noise rolls in from the general seating, louder and wilder.
Everyone sits behind Dan and me. And he’s been pleasantly kind so far. As we take our seats, he offers to get us popcorn outside. When he leaves, I quickly turn my back to look at my friends. “I’m freaking out,” I say to no one in particular.
“As you should,” Richard replies flatly.
“It’s okay, Kate,” Emily says. “Ignore them. Just breathe.”
Breathe. That’s what the lungs do, right?
The lights dim, and the crowd roars like they’ve all been waiting for this moment since birth. Music pounds through the speakers. Bass heavy, chest-thumping, like someone plugged my ribcage into a subwoofer. I can feel it in my teeth.
Overhead, the big screen explodes into a highlight reel: sweat-slick training drills, quick cuts of fast breaks, dunks that make the rim rattle, that perfect swish of the net. Everything is edited perfectly, set to a beat that will surely make anyone hyped up.
Dan slides back into his seat just as the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.
“And now,” the announcer booms, “after months away from the court—give it up for our captain, number seventeen… Michael Lee!”
The crowd erupts. It’s not just loud—it’s seismic. Like the floor itself is reacting to his name. I’m pretty sure a car alarm goes off somewhere.
And then he’s there.
Running out into the lights, jersey bright against his skin, moving like the world is right where it should be.
There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes when he first steps onto the court—just a blink, barely visible—but I see it.
Because I’m not looking at the screen. I’m not looking at the fireworks or the dancers or the camera flashes.
I’m only looking at him.
He makes a slow turn toward the crowd, toward the VIP seats—and then our eyes meet.
The noise doesn’t stop. The game doesn’t pause. But it’s like everything in me stills, just for a second. I wonder what he sees. If I’ve changed. If I look different from across the world he’s standing in.
I give him the smallest nod. Not a wave. Not a smile. Just something that says I see him.
He blinks, and something in his expression softens. Then he looks away, just as the huddle is called. I push my glasses up, to distract myself.
I expected to feel anxious when I saw the lights on him. Like I’m a stranger he won’t even notice. But somehow, I feel… okay. That maybe I could belong in a life like this…
Then I mentally slap myself. I can’t just decide that in the middle of a basketball game. That’s not how life works. We agreed to move on. Remember? That whole conversation where I smiled and pretended I meant it?
The whistle blows, and the game kicks off like a starting gun. Michael moves with practiced precision. He doesn’t showboat. Doesn’t call for the ball every time. But when he gets it, the court bends around him.
He makes the first basket with a clean jumper from the arc, and the crowd responds like it’s the championship. My friends cheer. Dan claps. I try to act casual, like it doesn’t send something fluttering through my ribs.
Every few minutes, I catch Michael glancing in our direction. He doesn't linger. He doesn’t smile. But he sees me. Again and again.
“Are you cold?” Dan asks, offering me his jacket.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
I grip my cup tighter, watching as Michael fakes left, drives right, and lands another shot. He’s good. Of course he’s good.
I take a sip of my drink to cool my face, which is absolutely not flushed from anything related to him, thank you very much.
Somewhere behind me, Richard is shouting commentary like a sports announcer with no mic discipline.
Haley keeps telling him to shush, but I barely hear them.
My focus keeps sliding back to the court, to the man who’s pretending I’m not here but can’t quite stop checking if I am.
The second quarter flies by in a rush of steals and passes. Polly appears on the jumbotron at one point, holding up a sign that says “Go Tito Wowski!” while the crowd coos. I smile in spite of myself.
And then—just before halftime—Michael goes up for a rebound and lands wrong. I stand. I don’t know why.
The whole arena gasps, then quiets as he stays on the ground, clutching his ankle. A ref whistles and the game slows.
“Shit,” I hear someone (maybe Joshua) say under his breath.
“Is he okay?” Richard leans forward, concerned.
Michael pushes himself up after a beat, waving off the medic. The crowd gives a relieved applause as he limps toward the bench. But even from here, I can see the grimace he tries to hide. I want to run to him. But I don’t.
He doesn’t look our way again—until right before halftime, when he glances up and his eyes catch mine again. This time, he holds it.
The buzzer sounds, signaling halftime. The score is tied at 45. He disappears into the tunnel with the players.
And I finally sit back down, realizing I’ve been on my feet too long.
The halftime show is a blur. Dancers in glittery uniforms. A raffle winner called down to the court.
My friends make small talk around me—Ryan and Joshua placing bets on the final score, Emily asking if the popcorn is actually buttered.
Bon taking photos of everything, like she always does.
Haley weirdly distraught. Dan leans over every so often, trying to talk to me.
I sip from my drink. My heart hasn’t slowed.
The stadium lights dim a little—transitioning to a softer, playful glow as the announcer’s voice booms across the court. “Alright, folks! You know what time it is!”
The crowd roars.
The jumbotron glows with the words ‘Kiss Cam’ as it scans around the arena. A couple of teenagers get caught in the light beam and they kiss shyly. Next, a middle-aged pair with foam fingers. Their kiss is a bit less shy, causing the crowd to cheer.
And then—
Us.
Me and Dan.
Sitting in the front row.
The crowd cheers expectantly.
“Oh God,” I breathe.
Dan laughs a little. He shifts awkwardly, “Just one kiss?” he asks.
I freeze. “Um, I—” I start.
“Come on, Kate, it’s just a kiss.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t really just… kiss.” I try to wave off the jumbotron. “We’re just friends,” I say to the camera, but the announcer insists.
And then, out of nowhere, the crowd cheers. Loudly. At first, I’m confused. Are they really cheering this loud for a stupid kiss cam?
And then that’s when it hits me. They’re not cheering for me… the cameras pan to the athlete’s entrance, and there he is. Michael. Striding out from the other side of the arena. He crosses the basketball court in big strides, until he grabs a mic from one of the hosts.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft and his gaze locked on me. “Sorry to interrupt. But… don’t do that.”